


the trickster's blood

by weirdoqueen



Category: Avengers
Genre: F/M, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-27
Updated: 2013-06-27
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdoqueen/pseuds/weirdoqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>loki satisfies his needs in a vicious manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the trickster's blood

sanctity

 

He walks down the hallway of—oh, well, _where_ exactly is irrelevant; all that matters now is he’s there and he’s _king_ here.

_your king, how may we serve—_

His hungry eyes scan the faces of his drones, his tools, his _slaves,_ and by the gods did those words dance on his tongue in the most delightful of ways, so much so that the corners of his lips pulled upwards and his teeth pulled at the inside of his mouth. They’re his to command, to control, to order, to have and use as he sees fit and he does plan to exercise each and every one of those abilities to their fullest potential.

                        _our god, our trickster, how may we—_

“You,” he says. She turns to face the man who called, and his grin widens.

The blonde is slimmer than he prefers, but oh, is she beautiful.

And he will enjoy her.

A T flutters on his tongue for a moment, but he rethinks his phrase; he would not mind her being had before the rest in this place, but he would mind taking her in the presence of others.

“Come with me,” he finally commands.

She blinks a few times, eyes bright blue and electricity-clouded. “I—”

He interrupts by grabbing her wrist, snarling, “ _Come._ With _me._ ”

As he leads—almost drags her away, he can smell the fear on her, the breath being shivered out of her with every heave of her chest. He opens the first door he sees, snarls at its occupants to get out.

The lights flicker and dim, tinged sickly yellow, darkening the circles beneath his eyes, gleaming dark on the horns of his helm.

The door slammed shut, his silhouette blocking the frame, she clings to whatever she landed against, eyes wide, cerulean even in the dark.

“Take off your clothes,” he murmurs, that grin still plastered upon his visage, a smolder waxing malicious in his eyes. Eyes locked on his, she obeys, but not sufficiently enough—horrified fingers fumbling with those oh-so-small buttons on her blouse.

“Not good enough,” he snarls, storming towards her. He grabs her by the collar and shoves her against the wall. His free hand procures a blade, and he slices it up the length of her clothing.

She whimpers.

His eyes scan her lingerie, and his brow furrows, and he growls and cuts the lace and finery until she’s bare and her smooth skin is marred already with drops of red.

She whimpers.

He shoves his knee between her legs, up against her groin, her feet lifting from the ground. She nearly recoils from the cold of his palm as one hand grips her breast, and the other grips her chin.

“Now then. How shall we proceed, hm?” The corners of his mouth twitch in their smirk, as though amused with himself, or with his situation in general. His eyes glance down at her lips, then back to her eyes and he resumes his grin as his mouth takes hers. The hand on her chin slides down to her neck, pressing her further against the wall, while the other slips fingers against the pale flesh between her legs.

He snorts at her apparent dryness. “You’re just not very good at this, are you?” he croons, grip readjusting and tightening on her neck. His hands settle on her hips, nails digging into her as he lifts her, thighs on his shoulders.

She yelps, he snarls, and presses his mouth to her, teeth working over her. Her muscles tense, she clamps her eyes shut,

he growls,

she shivers,

he slips fingers withi—

He pulls away, eyeing her quim, then her face, then returning to her quim again.

He mulls his discovery over, then, deciding it to be fortuitous, smirks.

“I’m trying to recall,” he murmurs, grin nothing short of vicious, “the last time I had a virgin.” His fingers press further, but they don’t enter—they only meet her hymen, one which, unfortunately, houses no entrance.

She bites her lip against a pitiful cry, nails clawing at the wall behind her.

“Mmm. That hurts you, hm?” He glances up at his horns, and, as if it knew, a tear crept past the blonde’s eyelashes. With one clean sweep, he removed his helm from his head and threw her to the floor.

“I might have a fix for that,” he purrs as she brings herself to her hands and knees and he kneels behind her. He presses a horn against the warm folds of her flesh and she yelps, jerking away. He snarls and wraps an arm around her hips, slamming her back against it.

“Did I _say_ you could move? I certainly don’t seem to remember it.” He delivers these last words as he angles the tip of the horn into her and she begins to scream, but he slams a hand over her mouth as the heat of her blood washes over his fingers when they finally enter her. He arches his body over her, lips at her ear, hisses, “I will _end_ you if need be, but I will fuck your corpse if I have to.”

But he keeps his hand over her mouth because he would much rather keep her alive—not that he was kidding.

He rocks his hand against her, his hips grinding against himself.

_One hand soaked in blood, one in tears, rife with the chaos of Ragnarok—_

            He smears blood on her, sliding his handprint up her curves, leaving nasty claw marks into her skin. He removes his tear-stained hand in order to pull at the laces of his trousers, the blood-drenched hand pressing her head against the floor as he bends over her and goes through his paces

            while she’s just there.

He pulls out soon enough, releasing his reserves into the blood dripping out of her, humming contentedly. He runs his free hand up his shaft, smoothing two fingers up her pulsing groin to dip in at the fluids gathered there, then dipping those fingers into his mouth and sucking off the mixture of blood and cum.

He relaces his trousers, stands, makes for the door but a sound—her whimpering catches his ear.

Brow raised, he says, “Want more?” The essence of sin in his voice, “I’ll give you more.”

A pleasant smile upon his lips, he returns to her, kicking her onto her back and once more kneeling before her, careful to avoid the streaks of crimson and spots of white.

He pulls his helm from his head, fingers touching at his hair to keep it in place as he casually inspects the horns.

Taking hold of the bloodless one—he wants them to match, of course—he positions it before her and her voice is a slur of cries and protests and negatives and it’s all music to his ears as the horn easily slides into her and eventually protrudes out her navel in a spurt of clean blood.

His nostrils flare.

He stands, brushes off his armor.

Turns towards the door,

exits,

closes the door behind him.

 

She bleeds out.

He outright beams.


End file.
